The Unmarried Husband. CATHY WILLIAMS
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you don’t communicate with him?’
She sounded like a lawyer, she realised. Working alongside them must have rubbed off on her in more ways than one.
‘Listen to me, Miss Hirst, if you think—’
The telephone buzzed, and he picked up the receiver and informed his secretary that no further calls were to be put through.
‘Look,’ he said, standing up, ‘this isn’t the right place to have this kind of…conversation. Ellie’s not going to be able to keep all my callers at bay.’
He was very tall, and without the desk acting as a shield his presence was even more overwhelming. She discovered that she was watching him, taking in the lean muscularity of his build, the casual air of self-assurance.
‘I’ll get my chauffeur to take us to the Savoy. We can discuss this there over a cup of coffee and rather more privacy. But I warn you now that my time is limited.’
Jessica nodded. She had planned on taking full control of the proceedings, as she had been taking full control of everything from as far back as she could remember.
Now she felt as though the rug had been pulled from under her feet, but with such dexterity that she was left feeling not unbalanced by the manoeuvre—more disconcerted by the speed.
‘Coming?’ he asked from the door, and she nodded again and stood up.
CHAPTER TWO
WHAT did he mean that his time was limited? Did that imply just right now, or could she read that as a general statement? She should have picked him up on that! Why on earth hadn’t she? Didn’t he see that this was just the problem? Limited time equalled maladjusted son, who was leading her precious daughter astray!
Jessica felt as though she was losing any advantage she might have had over the proceedings.
Ever since she had stepped into the man’s oversized office she had found herself confronted with someone who, even momentarily disconcerted, as he had been, was so accustomed to taking charge of things that he had automatically taken control of the situation. Leaving her utterly lost for words.
And now here she was, with a low table separating them and extravagantly laid out with pots of percolated coffee, cups and saucers and a plateful of extraordinarily mouth-watering little bites.
‘So,’ he said, crossing his legs and looking at her, ‘why have you seen fit to storm into my office and confront me? You might as well tell me right now what my son has been up to. If it’s what I think it is, then I’m sure we can settle on some sort of amicable arrangement.’
The wintry grey eyes revealed nothing. There was absolutely nothing about him that encouraged her to relax in any way at all, and she had to resist the impulse not to give in to an embarrassing display of nervous mannerisms. Her self-confidence had ebbed enough as it was, and she was determined that he did not become aware of that.
‘Why do you think I came to see you, Mr Newman?’ she asked, throwing the question back at him.
‘I have neither the time nor the inclination for games, Miss Hirst. I assumed that you were going to tell me precisely that. Wasn’t that your reason for barging unannounced into my office?’ She stared at him without flinching, and eventually he asked, impatiently, ‘Has my son got your daughter into any sort of trouble? Is that it?’
Jessica didn’t answer. She decided that the best course of action was to get him to plough his way through this one instead of encouraging her to do all the talking. If a solution was to be engineered, it would have to be a two-way road; he would have to be prepared to travel his fair share of the distance.
‘Is she pregnant?’ he asked bluntly, and Jessica could feel hot colour rush into her face. The question, with all its implications, was almost an insult.
No, Lucy was not pregnant! She knew that. Why would this man jump to that conclusion? The answer came to her almost as soon as she had asked herself the question—because it was the most obvious cause of concern to a mother. Because boys will be boys. He certainly didn’t seem to be shocked by the assumption.
‘And what exactly would your solution be if that were the case, Mr Newman?’
‘I’m a wealthy man, Miss Hirst. I would be prepared to accept any financial difficulties that might arise.’
‘In other words, she would be paid off.’
‘Naturally paternity would have to be proved.’
Was this how wealthy people operated? she wondered. Throw enough money at a problem and, hey presto, no more problem? His approach was so cold, so emotionless, that she could feel every muscle in her body tightening in anger.
‘That is, if she wanted to keep the baby at all. There are other options, as you well know.’
‘Abortion?’
‘You make it sound like a crime. But Mark is only seventeen years old, and your daughter… How old is she?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Sixteen. Barely out of childhood herself. A baby could well ruin her life.’ For the first time he threw her a long, speculative look that took in everything, from the neat little blue dress, well tailored but beginning to show its age, to the blonde bob, to the flat sandals—her only pair of summer shoes, bought in a sale over two years ago. Her wardrobe wasn’t bulging at the seams, but everything in it was of good quality, made to last.
The only problem with that was that eventually those made to last items began looking a little stale. Right now she felt downright old-fashioned, and the reason, she knew, lay in those assessing grey eyes.
‘You barely look old enough to have a daughter of sixteen.’
‘What are you trying to say, Mr Newman?’
‘How old were you when you had her?’
‘That’s none of your business!’
‘You expect me to sit back in silence and allow you to lecture me on the behaviour of my son without asking you any questions?’ He poured himself a cup of coffee, sat back, and regarded her unsmilingly over the rim of the cup.
Jessica was deeply regretting her impulse to seek this man’s help. He had no intention of co-operating with her and he never would have. He was typical of that breed of person who throws money at their children and assumes that that does the trick. She had seen examples of them often enough where she worked. Parents with too much money and too little time, who sat upright on chairs in the law offices, bewildered by a child who had been brought in for driving a stolen car, or causing damage to property. How could he do this to us? was their invariable lament. After all we did for him!
‘Let’s just get one thing straight, Mr Newman.’ She refused to call him Anthony. ‘My daughter is not pregnant.’
‘Then why the hell didn’t—?’
‘I make that clear from the start?’ She looked at the unyielding face. ‘Because I was curious to hear precisely how you would have handled such a problem.’
‘And I take it from that stony expression on your face that my reply was not what you would have wanted to hear?’
‘Very good, Mr Newman.’
‘The name is Anthony! Will you stop calling me Mr Newman? I’m not conducting an interview for a job!’
Jessica reddened and looked away.
‘And what would have been your solution to that particular little problem, Miss Hirst? How would you have suggested that I deal with it?’
‘It’s irrelevant, since Lucy isn’t pregnant.’
‘Why don’t you answer my question?’ He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and subjected her to intense, cool scrutiny. ‘I’m interested in your answer.’